


two dad shaped beings

by curlie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Kidfic, M/M, Wing Grooming, also its only rated t because theres one single usage of the word Fuck, also this is very romcom-y but like. tender, anthony az and adam call that the triple a family, anyways its a romcom domestic crowley steals the antichrist au kidfic have fun, based off the show but theres little bits from the book, briefly and very tenderly, edit forgot to add this is absolutely autistic aziraphale and adhd crowley, like a gomens-book-fun-facts knowledge level for the ending bit, like always assume im writing them like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-09-28 08:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlie/pseuds/curlie
Summary: Crowley steals the Antichrist and he and Aziraphale raise it together.  Snippets over the course of eleven years of them fumbling through parenthood and "I sure hope our bosses don't find out about this and literally actually 'fire' us lol"-hood.





	two dad shaped beings

**Author's Note:**

> i really didn't think i was going to hit 9k let alone 10k, but here we are. about a week of planning and two nonstop days of writing which were ... probably the most fun ive had doing a writing project in awhile. az and crow are super fun to write, even if their characters may have been tough to get a handle on.
> 
> ALSO big thanks to my boyfriend for the beta =]

**August, 2008**

Crowley had half a mind to just throw the damned thing out the car window.

Why he had been chosen for something like this was beyond him. Like—okay, sure, he may have _ embellished _ once or twice in his memos, but _ everyone _did. "Hell's good graces" was definitely a foreign concept to him, but it didn't hurt to try to be in them anyways. 

Earning the trust of Hell, Crowley was quickly learning, was an entirely different beast from actually being trusted with something.

He entered the hospital—if you could call it that—just short of shaky, but he willed himself steady. Crowley wasn't _ shaky _ . Demons didn't _ get _ "shaky."

The Ambassador outside had given him a room number, but he was still getting over the whole _ "Take the Antichrist to the Satanic nun hospital and get the Apocalypse on a roll, Crowley" _thing, and muttered a quick, "Take it to Room Four," before turning to leave. Barely made eye contact, not that the nun would have been able to tell. 

As he was opening the door to the Bentley, he was struck with the thought of, _ Oh, shit, he said Room Three, didn't he? _and contemplated for all of half a second before starting back to the hospital entrance again, but the woman was long gone.

Oh well, Crowley reasoned. They'd sort it out. They were good at keeping records, after all.

He was a good ways down the road, fingers thrumming against the steering wheel with unbridled anxiety at the current events, when he suddenly brought the Bentley to a screeching halt, dropping his head down and ignoring the blaring honk that came from one letting their head _ thump _ against the steering wheel. Voice a bit muffled, he instructed the car's Bluetooth to make a call. A pause, followed by a groan as he was met with the infuriatingly polite, _ "Sorry, all lines to London are currently busy." _

Crowley let himself sit there for a moment, taking deep breaths and listening to the cars going by. He had an, an _ idea _ halfway forming in his brain. He was nowhere near coming up with all of the details—that's what Aziraphale was for—but there was, there was _ something _.

Well, he'd done more with less.

Steeling himself, he turned the Bentley around, and, by the sheer force of will, and some demonic miracles, managed to get through the traffic, making his way straight back to the hospital. If he managed to pull this fast one, Aziraphale was either going to yell at him or love him, and to be honest, he could handle either of those prospects, just so long as the angel didn't—Go— Sa— _ stars _ forbid—make some dreaded comment about how _ caring _ the gesture was.

He pulled up, quickly finding one of the side—or back, he didn't care to know the precise design of the building—entrances, and leaned in apprehensively. One of the nuns was passing by, carting a baby in front of her, and some very official-looking men were standing around. Part of the Ambassador's people, Crowley figured. He had to be a little careful with his words here. 'Course, if they did find something to be amiss, he could snap the problem away, but it was an annoyance to have to do so.

"Taken care of it yet?" he asked discreetly.

The nun paused, thankfully caught on, and very meaningfully responded, "We were just bringing this one to the _ room." _

A bit weird way to phrase it, but then again, these nuns were weird. Still, it was what mattered—they hadn't swapped the babies yet. The Antichrist was _ right there. _

"Best let me handle it," Crowley said, hoping he sounded cool and nonchalant, or at least mysterious and intimidating. "Small change of plans. He's to be brought to a different room. For … "

"Weighing," the nun offered helpfully.

"Weighing," Crowley agreed. "Yes."

He paused, and then, in a very small but very important fit of panic, stopped time with a flick of his wrist. He reached down, grabbing the Antichrist and holding it closely and carefully, not at all unlike someone holding a porcelain vase for a very temperamental boss.

When the people in the room came to, Crowley was gone, and the baby that was meant to be there was a mere thought lost in the night.

-

Crowley could drive one-handed perfectly fine, but trying to do the same when one arm was holding a baby was another story, and he was starting to regret not grabbing a new basket.

He pulled up in front of a certain bookshop in Soho, stepped out of the car, and paused in front of the door before tentatively knocking. Any other time he'd just let himself in (or miracle himself to the middle of the room, responding to the, "Crowley, I hope you don't enter every establishment like that, especially when they're closed," he got with a fond, "Only yours, angel,") but he figured politeness might be the best route if he was to convince Aziraphale to agree on this one.

Aziraphale answered the door, looking confused, a bit pleasantly surprised that Crowley had knocked, and then looked down. His eyes slowly raised to meet Crowley's, giving the demon a Very Severe Look.

"Crowley, dear, what is that?"

"It's more of a who, really."

That earned him another Look, but Aziraphale granted him mercy, ushering him inside.

-

"You _ took _the Antichrist instead of delivering it?"

"I delivered it to them!" Crowley retorted. Pause. "And then I … went back and stole it."

"You _ stole _ the Antichrist?" Aziraphale cried, incredulous. He had been pacing around the back room, fidgeting with the hem of his vest, but at that he spun to him.

"I stopped time," the demon added wretchedly.

_ "Crowley!" _

"I had to!" Crowley gestured with one hand, shifting where he was sitting on the couch. The baby was in the crook of his other arm, somehow sleeping through this. "The Antichrist is the start of, of the _ end _ of things, and I thought, maybe, if we intervened … we could stop it from starting."

Aziraphale sharply turned to look at him, but at the desperation in Crowley's voice, he seemed to soften a bit. "My dear, that's a caring gesture —" 

Crowley winced.

"— but we are hardly equipped to—to _ raise _ a _ child! _ Especially one that we're attempting to ensure doesn't wind up destroying everything!"

"No couple is equipped to raise a child, angel," Crowley responded pointedly. "There's people barely two dozen years old raising children, and they're perfectly fine!"

He felt something in the back of his mind freeze at how he inadvertently called he and Aziraphale a couple, and tried not to drop the baby.

Aziraphale didn't seem to notice. "Alright, fine, but where are we supposed to raise the child? My bookshop is no place for a person to grow up."

That was true. Between the clutter, content in the books, faint smell of mildew, and, well, if one were being honest, the strange aura that seemed to cover every inch of the place, it was hardly a suitable place for someone to bring their child in for ten minutes, let alone raise one in it.

Still, Crowley persevered, "Why not? You've got … things."

"I don't even have a proper bedroom, let alone spare room for a child or space enough for him to grow," Aziraphale went on. "And you definitely can't raise him in your flat. Not with your … _ decorations." _

Solid eye contact with that statement. Crowley averted his gaze. That was, well, fair.

"We can go somewhere local," Crowley tried. "Close to the hospital. There's plenty of houses, maybe a cottage or something. We'd look like any other family there." To an extent, anyways, he added silently.

Aziraphale shook his head, visibly struggling for a moment. Crowley had seen this expression before, this internal fighting constantly nagging at the angel. It was painfully reminiscent of a handful of decades before, a moment in a car, hands barely touching as a thermos was given from one to another.

"I can't _ interfere _, Crowley," Aziraphale finally said, voice pained. "Upstairs would … I just—I just can't."

Crowley understood, he really did. There was a lot to be scared of. But he couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration. This wasn't a small thing, it was _ literally _ the end of the world, and it'd been over 6000 years.

"Fine, I'll raise him myself," Crowley said, standing up. "Should've known better."

"Crowley —"

He waved dismissively at Aziraphale, leaving him in the bookshop to dither about before sinking into the Bentley. Of course he felt bad. Of course he wasn't being fair. But he'd _ literally stolen the Antichrist. _ He was kind of in a perpetual state of ridiculous at the moment.

Speaking of, the baby seemed to have woken up, and the beginnings of a bout of crying were going to be quick to follow. Definitely not something Crowley needed right that second. He sighed, leaning back, glancing over, and feeling his heart, as unnecessary the thing was, skip a beat.

A car seat for an infant was securely fastened into the back left seat, with a familiar pattern decorating it. Almost instantly, Crowley's frustration melted into embarrassing fondness. Miracles could be risky, even if they did manage to fly by undetected for the most part. If he were to make a comment about it to Aziraphale, the angel would probably go on about how it was “the right thing to do for a child, given the circumstances” or some other thing. He figured he wouldn’t have to bother to thank him, anyways; if Aziraphale could sense love, then the feeling swelling in Crowley’s chest was sure to reach him.

Carefully climbing out and walking to the other side, he gently placed the baby—he was making the executive decision to stop mentally referring to it as "the Antichrist"—in the car seat, and frowned. The seat wasn't overly complicated, but it was just enough straps to be confusing while Crowley's brain was still a bit fuddled over the thing's existence in his car. 

Crowley sighed. He certainly hadn't invented "being stuck to raise a child by yourself," but he'd definitely taken credit for it Downstairs.

-

Driving down the road, Crowley imagined that the old couple currently renting out the closest cottage would be leaving within the hour on important personal business, never to return—at least for the next eleven odd years. Or, not coming back at all, if he managed to fuck this plan up. Regardless, he’d found a place of residence to raise the child, and hopefully—if his miracle hadn’t backfired on his face like every other thing he tried to do—some food and resources to keep a baby sated for the night.

(His miracles hardly worked to his advantage.)

-

The next morning, there was a knocking at the door.

Crowley had entered the cottage the night before—he’d had to very strategically hold the baby in one arm and with the other flick a _ horseshoe _ from the entryway with a stick—and sighed when a quick search through the cupboards had revealed a distinct lack in _ anything _useful for raising a baby, or even just taking care of one for the night. Can’t have it all, he supposed. Maybe he hadn’t been focused enough.

He’d sat down at the kitchen table and taken a moment to give the baby a good look. It had fallen back asleep and was quietly snoring into the blanket haphazardly wrapped around it.

“Can’t exactly call you ‘the Antichrist,’” Crowley had mused to himself. “There’s probably laws about sending kids to school, so the teachers might ask about that one.”

Normally he wouldn’t care about the law, but despite how lax Hell was, he had a distinct feeling they might start keeping tabs more carefully. Or, at least, slightly more than before. Regardless, he didn’t need another radio interference from Down Below asking why he had to miracle child services away.

“How about Adam?” he offered to nobody in particular after a solid minute of trying to think of all the names he knew. “That’s a good one, Adam. Downstairs’ll get a kick out of that.”

He’d tried to drift off for a bit, but very quickly learned that sleeping is one thing you could not do in the presence of a newborn baby that you intended to maintain in decent health. It was a good thing he didn’t _ need _ to sleep, but he missed it all the same. Odd thing, though, was that when he returned to the cupboards, he found them with baby formula he could have sworn had been absent before. Must have missed it.

Now the next morning, Crowley answered the door with Adam swaddled up, carefully balanced in one arm. Aziraphale was standing there, patiently waiting and actually, literally, twiddling his thumbs.

“Hi.”

Aziraphale looked up, eyes wide. “Oh, dear. You still have it.”

“I couldn’t exactly waltz back and go, ‘Hey guys, ya lost something.’”

“No, of course not.” A beat. “You’ve taken care of it all night, then?”

“As best I could,” Crowley told him. “Mostly I’ve been going through the old tenants’ towel supply. No diapers around here, don’t want to get noticed Down There.”

Aziraphale’s expression turned remorseful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Crowley shrugged, shifted Adam in his arms, trying to make it very visible that he could handle things on his own. “So, what’s up.”

“I wanted to talk about … the situation, and last night.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Crowley responded, mentally hitting himself; it’d come out a bit harsher than intended.

Aziraphale sighed. “I just think that—with it being the Antichrist, and everything—it would probably be difficult to raise it on your own, and, maybe an angelic influence would help in preventing it from leaning into its father’s legacy —”

That was a surprise. Trying not to smile, Crowley cut him off before he hurt himself tripping over his words. “Are you offering to help me after all, angel?”

“I—yes. I thought about it, and I think—it’s …” He fumbled for a moment. “I don’t want the world to end. If it comes down to it, as much as I … don’t want to disobey Heaven, I don’t intend on fighting in any war or standing aside while everything I’ve come to love is destroyed. And I couldn’t let you do this on your own.”

Normally, Crowley could practically see the hours Aziraphale would spend coming up with the right words in situations like this, practicing it in the mirror ridiculously—he’d even given tips once or twice—but now, he’d come completely unprepared, just kind of speaking from the heart.

The entire state of things was weird to Crowley. Usually it was _ him _ saving _ Aziraphale’s _ass after the angel went off did something stupid, not the other way around.

Feeling that annoyingly warm emotion he didn’t dare name, he sighed and gestured to him. “Come in, angel.”

Entering, Aziraphale turned to Crowley, brightening a bit. “So, have you named it?”

“Been calling _ him _ Adam,” Crowley answered. “Thought it’d be funny. I should probably change it, if we’re trying to make him _ not _destroy the world.”

“No, no, it’s a lovely name,” Aziraphale assured him with a gentle pat on his upper arm. “Do you have supplies to care for him?”

Crowley grimaced. “Kind of? I found formula in the cupboard the second time I went looking, miraculously.” He paused. _ Miraculously. _“Wait.”

Aziraphale was silent.

“How did you —”

When people describe another person as “bursting out” into speech, they’re usually exaggerating or at least trying to make their language a little exciting and interesting for the reader. It was not an exaggeration in this case, so much so that Crowley was distinctly reminded of millennia ago, when he’d teased Aziraphale for being without his sword.

“I really shouldn’t have, it was _ much _ too risky, especially with the car seat last night, but I was just _ so _worried,” the angel fretted. “Hopefully Head Office won’t put two and two together.”

Crowley stared at him, brain just about melted to a halt except for the thought of, _ If I weren’t holding the Antichrist, I’d be kissing you right now. _

-

The moment didn’t last long. As pointed out so graciously by Aziraphale, they were short on supplies required to raise a child, and they both agreed that exclusively using miracles would 1) get them noticed quite quickly by their respective Head Offices, and 2) probably have some weird, lasting, supernatural effects on the child (in the same way that getting a single x-ray wouldn’t hurt, but being the doctor giving x-rays all day and _ not _ leaving the room to do so _ would) _, which was, in the angel’s words, “quite the opposite of what we want to happen, dear.”

Aziraphale held Adam in the car on the way to the closest grocery/general goods store, after talking Crowley down to a leisurely 70 miles per hour. He held him through the store, too, because he didn’t trust those shopping carts to be anything short of a dangerous menace, especially with Crowley pushing it.

“So, what are we supposed to get for him?” Crowley asked, just now feeling a bit stupid that he’d just kind of taken a baby and not thought it out beforehand. In his defense, most things he did were a little “spur of the moment.”

“Well, after I made the decision to help you, I did a bit of research —”

Crowley snorted.

“—and I wrote down a list of things we’d need to start with. Diapers, for one. And formula,” he added matter-of-factly.

“Really,” Crowley replied flatly.

Aziraphale frowned at him, handing him a piece of paper decorated with his neat script. “It’s all here. It isn’t … too much, I hope?”

“We’re lucky I have money, because we both know that bookshop of yours isn’t turning a profit.”

“I haven’t _ needed _ a profit.”

They fumbled through the store—it was really the only way to describe it—and did their best at identifying the things Aziraphale had written. It was a bit embarrassing, really; a couple of thousands-year-old beings, and they didn’t know basic necessities for an infant. Crowley was acutely aware of the glances they got, and did very distinctly hear one person turn to their partner and say, “See? It’s never too late to adopt.”

Well, adopting was one word for it.

He was also very aware that, yeah, okay, they did very much look like a couple. Not that _ he _ personally minded that, but still. It was a thought to have.

“Oh, I forgot to write it,” Aziraphale said with a start, turning to Crowley, “but we should probably pick up some clothes for him. He can only be wrapped up in those towels for so long.”

Admittedly, Crowley had not thought of that. “Yeah, true,” he agreed. “Baby clothes were back that way, I think.” He gestured vaguely behind them. Aziraphale could figure it out, he was smart. Also, there were signs.

He quickly regretted giving Aziraphale free reign to go off and look at baby clothes. Once he finally found the right _ kind _of formula (seriously, way too complicated), and located the angel, he found him somehow managing to balance Adam in one arm and about half a dozen possible onesies in the other, and wasn’t at all holding the baby precariously. It was all well and endearing, but also, Crowley really did not want them to be found by Heaven or Hell in the middle of a baby clothes section looking like a couple of newlyweds who think that a human child to care for is some sort of novelty.

“Angel, just pick a couple and go, we can’t be here all day,” he told Aziraphale, unable to keep the fond tone from his voice.

“I know, but I wanted to show you a couple of these, look!” He held one up, beaming at the Winnie-the-Pooh design on it.

God. “Adorable, angel,” Crowley told him. “Get as many as you want, but we have to get a move on.”

They managed to get through the checkout with only the normal amount of awkwardness, and made it back to the Bentley in one piece.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Aziraphale said, closing the door as he got in. He was still holding Adam, smiling at Crowley. “I think we did a rather good job at shopping for him.”

Crowley nodded. “And, I think what I’ve got is enough to get him to eighteen—or at least eleven. Money-wise, I mean,” he added.

“He’ll be okay, though, right? With us raising him, maybe he … won’t come into his full power.” He looked to be in physical pain to not be able to gesture as he spoke, hands being full with holding Adam.

“Don’t know about that,” Crowley said. “Personally, _ I’m _hoping that raising him will teach him not to use the power for destruction. Probably just teaching him right from wrong will do the job.”

“What if he didn’t know?” Aziraphale asked, in a tone of someone who was already hesitant about something he had barely thought about.

“Didn’t know?”

“What if we just, raised him like a normal child? No influencing in one way or the other, just a regular boy. It’s probably better if he doesn’t know he’s … you know. The son of Satan. How do you even go about explaining that to him?”

“That’s not a bad idea. Normal children don’t think about causing the end-times. Most of them, anyway,” he amended.

Aziraphale looked quite pleased with himself at that, and Crowley felt content for the first time since he had the thought, _ what if I just stole it? _

They would just have to find a way to avoid their respective Head Offices from catching wind of this, which would be … quite a challenge.

Crowley suddenly slammed his head into the steering wheel with a sharp, “Shit!”

“Language!” Aziraphale said, covering Adam’s ears.

“He’s a day old, he doesn’t know what I’m saying,” Crowley retorted.

_ “What _is wrong?”

“We didn’t get a _ crib.” _

“Oh.”

The second run through the store was somehow more hasty and embarrassed than the first.

-

**January, 2009**

In the next several months, Aziraphale and Crowley took to raising Adam without so much as a word of interference or attempted contact from Heaven or Hell. Crowley tried not to think about it so much as "the other shoe being about to drop" and more as being shielded by Adam's "automatic defense thingy."

The two of them managed to work into a routine that consisted of Aziraphale putting in a leave of absence—something very easy to obtain permission for when you are the boss of your own private business—and Crowley being certain that the plants in his flat would be fine; they knew better than to not be.

There had also been an especially unpleasant day where Crowley forced himself to buy a set of contacts. Despite Aziraphale protesting that his eyes looked "perfectly fine" and "absolutely stunning" (which he knew, of course), he figured it'd be the responsible thing to do, lest Adam grow up thinking it was normal for a person to have eyes resembling a snake's (or to wear sunglasses constantly, for that matter). He kept a similar color, though. He wasn't _ that _caring about the whole thing.

They were sitting at the kitchen table one night, at the end of the year, a point in the night where Crowley wasn't sure if it was December 31st, 2008, or January 1st, 2009, but it didn't really matter, in his opinion. A small radio sat on the counter between them, droning soft melodies that kept Adam asleep in Aziraphale's arms.

Crowley couldn't help but think about how—God—_ tender _ the entire scene was. Aziraphale just seemed … _ made _ for this, and well, yeah, of course he was, he was an _ angel _ , but still. Crowley found himself just kind of _ staring _ at the angel, and didn't notice that he had been talking until he was being gently prodded with a, "Dear, are you alright?"

"H'm."

"I was _ saying, _ it's amazing how much Adam's grown," Aziraphale said with a tone that was far from genuine annoyance. "Just over four months old and he's already crawling."

"That's pretty standard, angel. If anything, humans take too long. Horses are up and walking an hour after birth, as big as they are, and Adam can't even stand on his own yet," Crowley replied. "Inefficient, if you ask me."

"Humans are delicate, intelligent creatures. They need time."

"Horses are delicate. Bring a hoof down the wrong way and —" Crowley made a finger gun and mimicked a gunshot noise.

"Please don't make gun sounds around the child," Aziraphale chided. "Anyways, I'm saying that I think we're doing a decent job. A good one, even."

Crowley shrugged. "Yeah, well, any idiot can raise a child, and we're smarter than that."

Aziraphale gave a soft laugh. "No, dear."

They fell into a comfortable silence, listening to the radio pause its stream of music in favor of the countdown. Crowley shifted his attention back to Aziraphale, who was humming along to the song that had started to bring in the new year, gently rocking Adam in his arms.

"Angel."

Aziraphale looked up, the moonlight filtering through the window somehow managing to catch in his eyes in a way that just made them _ shimmer _.

Crowley felt the words almost catch in his throat. "I just wanted to … you didn't have to help me with Adam," he made out. "Thanks."

"Yes, well, it only seemed the right thing to do," Aziraphale said, glancing away almost shyly. "You've gone out of your way to help me before, and most of the time I wasn't trying to do something for the greater good of humanity."

Crowley groaned. "Don't start —"

"I will," Aziraphale insisted. "I know you don't like to hear it, but look at us, Crowley. You know we're doing a good thing."

Before Crowley could mumble some half-hearted complaint, Adam woke with a small start, babbling quietly into Aziraphale's shoulder. The angel stood up, gentle, and softly murmured, "Oh, let's get you to bed."

Aziraphale returned a couple minutes later, pulling his chair next to Crowley's, sitting close and leaning into him. Crowley nearly tensed in surprised, but, not wanting Aziraphale to be put off, carefully put an arm around him and rest his cheek on the top of the angel's head.

"I meant what I said, Crowley," Aziraphale told him, voice hushed.

"I know, I know," Crowley replied. "It's just—you spend thousands of years Down There …"

"Of course, dear."

Crowley was vaguely aware of Aziraphale shifting in his seat, and then felt the angel's lips brush against his cheek. He turned and blinked, unsure of how to respond aside from his arm tightening around Aziraphale's waist, which earned him a soft laugh.

Looking down at Aziraphale’s just about sparkling eyes, he’d remember later that there was never really any big revelation, or confession, or anything like that. When an angel puts aside Heaven, risks it all to help a demon with a very fallible plan to save everything, you kind of realize that a confession isn’t _ necessary. _ They were already there.

He kissed Aziraphale's forehead, just letting his lips linger there, and in turn felt Aziraphale nuzzle into his neck.

"We should probably plan something for his birthday," Aziraphale murmured.

"Eight months in advance?"

"It can't hurt."

Crowley hummed in agreement. "Should probably work on _ legalities, _too. I don't think Head Office will notice if I use a couple miracles to fake a birth certificate. Easier than dealing with officials asking why we're just now getting that done."

"Be careful, dear."

"'Course." Crowley stood up, taking Aziraphale's hand.

"Where are you going?"

"To bed. Adam usually stays asleep for a few hours. Come get some rest."

"Darling, I don't need rest," he reminded.

"You could use it," Crowley countered. "Come on."

Aziraphale sighed, but didn't complain further, and allowed Crowley to drag him from the kitchen.

-

**August, 2009**

Crowley had spent the better part of the past several hours trying to figure out how to bake a cake.

This was his fourth attempt at it, but as far as Aziraphale knew, he was just being _ very _meticulous about one single Super Great Cake.

“I’m doing this for you, you know,” he said, adding to the half hour he’d spent steadily talking to Adam, as if the baby had any idea what he was going on about. Said baby was happily sitting at the kitchen table in a high chair, playing with Crowley’s car keys.

“We’re giving you a little birthday party, like you’re going to remember any of this,” Crowley went on, putting up fake irritability. “Learning how to bake for you. _ I _am, anyway.” Aziraphale had taken one look at a recipe book, kissed Crowley on the cheek, and told him, “You’re much better at this sort of thing, dear.”

Adam responded by babbling incoherently and drooling on his shirt, which, incidentally, had been bought that week.

Shaking his head, Crowley took a napkin and wiped at Adam’s face. “Disgusting. Absolutely appalling. Almost a year old and you still spit everywhere.”

Adam stared at him in that very dumb, baby-like manner.

“Do you know what I’m saying? Or are these just words to you?”

“Don’t bully him, dear,” Aziraphale suddenly said from the entryway going into the living room.

Crowley shot him a, _ “how long have you been standing there?” _look, waving vaguely at Adam. “‘M not bullying him. I’m very directly telling Adam that he’s a little shit.”

At that, Aziraphale crossed his arms. “Crowley, what did we say about your language?”

“It’s fine, he isn’t talking properly yet.”

Adam properly said a very distinct word that had been uttered in his presence moments before. Well, almost. The _ “shh” _sound was a bit tough for him to pronounce.

“Anthony.”

Crowley threw his hands up defensively, shaking his head. “He said _ sit!” _

“You’re lucky he did, aren’t you?” Aziraphale responded, looking like he was about to go into a lecture.

Crowley fumbled for a moment, grabbing the bowl he’d forgotten on the counter and (taking three tries to do so) the spoon. “Look—I’m baking. I’m making his birthday cake. No more swearing. Promise.”

Aziraphale picked Adam up from the high chair, walking by and tilting Crowley’s face to his to give him a chaste, forgiving kiss.

“Do pick the eggshells out, dear.”

-

Adam’s first birthday came and went without incident. They’d gotten him a couple stuffed animals, like a teddy bear, and a few “developmental toys” Aziraphale had read about in a parenting magazine. So far, things had been easy, but they were starting to find some new challenges. Such as trying to feed him.

Currently, Aziraphale was trying to prevent Crowley from giving Adam a strawberry.

“You can’t give him fruits and sweet foods, he won’t eat the important things,” the angel argued, tugging at Crowley’s arm.

“Well, he won’t eat vegetables or anything else,” Crowley responded sharply. “What do you want me to do, let him starve?”

“You have to teach him to eat _ correctly!” _

“Right, like I’m an expert on that.”

“Fine, let me try.” Shooting Crowley a cross look, Aziraphale took a baby carrot from a baggie on the counter, holding it out for Adam. “This is practically a fruit, you’ll like it,” he tried.

Adam took the baby carrot from Aziraphale, considered it for a moment, and then reached out, bopping the angel on the nose with it.

“You’re fantastic with children, angel,” Crowley drawled, suppressing a snicker. Ignoring Aziraphale’s sour expression, he took the baby carrot, holding it in front of Adam’s face.

“You scared of a carrot?” he challenged.

Adam looked affronted.

“I think you’re scared of the carrot, Adam,” Crowley continued, nodding at the baby.

Adam took the carrot, taking a bite from it as if to say, _ Look. Not scared. _

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, just a _ tiny _bit smug. “See, angel? Easy.”

-

A couple days later, while dozing in a chair in the backyard, Crowley woke up to Aziraphale patting his chest and shoulders like the world was about to end.

He woke with a start, blinking at the angel. “What —”

Instead of answering, Aziraphale gestured wildly behind him, where Adam was toddling unsteadily in the grass, about ten feet away.

“Don’t just leave him by himself!” Crowley said sharply.

“Take a picture!” Aziraphale told him excitedly.

“Right, yeah, go make sure he doesn’t fall and split his head open!” Crowley retorted, even though it was summer and the ground and grass tended to be quite soft in the yard, likely with thanks to Crowley’s garden.

Still, he stood up, fumbling at his pockets for his phone, holding it up and taking a couple blurry, shaky photos of Aziraphale and Adam. He lowered his phone, looking them over. One was of Adam standing, Aziraphale crouched a couple feet in front of him, arms outstretched. In the next, the angel hugged him and beamed.

Crowley gazed at the photos, setting the second as his wallpaper and shaking his head at how ridiculously in love he was.

-

**November, 2009**

Aziraphale and Crowley were lying in bed together.

Aziraphale had made himself comfortable, nuzzling into Crowley’s collarbone with one wing hanging off the side of the bed, the other flopped across the two of them, along with one of his arms around Crowley’s waist. Crowley idly combed through Aziraphale’s wing with one hand, picking out stray feathers and letting them fall around the two of them. While the angel’s wings seemed to be perpetually in this condition, Crowley usually made a point to keep well groomed, though he supposed he might have been falling behind ever since they took up the whole “parenting” business. Once Adam started school, made some friends, there’d be time without him in the house. Not that Crowley wanted Adam out of the house—which was a sudden realization that brought warmth he decided he’d unpack another time—but wing grooming was a routine he’d really loathe to let go of.

That reminded him. “Right. School. H’m. Angel, we should probably do that … birth certificate thing.”

“Oh, true,” Aziraphale agreed, idly playing with Crowley’s shirt sleeve. “That will certainly be something to figure out. Especially with registering him for school.”

Crowley paused. “What do we—I mean, he’s starting to talk. We haven’t really been teaching him how to—uh—_ identify _us?”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“I’m not really an _ expert,” _ Crowley started with the over-enunciation he tended to use when nervous, “but I’m fairly certain by this age, parents usually have taught their children their … _ mama’s and papa’s, _to put it. We haven’t exactly done that.”

“He knows our names,” Aziraphale reasoned.

“Aziraphale, your name is like a song on my tongue, but I think he’ll hurt himself trying to pronounce it right now,” Crowley told him. “That’s not really what I mean, though. Isn’t it kind of … _ odd, _for a child to be calling their parents by their first names? People could find that strange. Probably think we’re doing a rubbish job at parenting if Adam’s talking to us like that. Even if it’s not disrespectful from his point of view. We should probably figure out—what?”

As he rambled, Aziraphale had been staring up at him with the more _ adoring _expression. He reached out, very tenderly bringing his hand up to cup Crowley’s face, the other arm tightening around his waist.

“Oh, Crowley, we’re _ parents,” _he all but breathed, looking like he were about to cry.

“We’ve been raising him over a year, I suppose we are,” Crowley replied, a bit bewildered.

“It’s just kind of … dawning on me, is all,” Aziraphale said, breaking into a soft smile. _ “Fathers.” _

“He _ is _the Antichrist, though,” Crowley pointed out quietly.

Aziraphale gave him a frustrated little huff, shaking his head. “I forget sometimes, all of that. It’s just —” He paused, looking for the right words. “— I know it’s only been a year and a handful of months, barely a blink of an eye for us, but raising him—with you—it’s just been so lovely. I know this is us trying to prevent Armageddon by raising him as a normal boy, but he—you and I—we’re a _ family, _ Crowley. This doesn’t _ feel _like a job we’re taking on. It feels, sincere, almost. Quite certainly.”

Crowley took an unsteady breath, reaching out to run his hand through Aziraphale’s hair, unsure of what to say. “Angel —”

“He’s going to be a good person when he grows up,” Aziraphale went on, “because of us and because of what you decided to do that night. I don’t care what he’s _ meant _to be. What he is right now is our son.”

Beyond choked up, Crowley managed to say, “You’re always so sentimental.”

“You went and stole back a child because you couldn’t bear to let him have to go into his power and be forced to start a war,” Aziraphale countered. “I hardly think I’m the most sentimental one.”

Crowley almost responded with an, _ “It was the right thing to do,” _but stopped himself, and something in the angel’s eyes told him he could tell.

_ Tell him you love him. _ Crowley stared, the feeling in his chest too heavy for him to get the words out. _ Tell him he's your world. _ "Aziraphale."

“I know, darling,” Aziraphale said mercifully, leaning up and drawing Crowley close, voice feather light and tender and full of adoration. His lips brushed against Crowley’s as he added, “I love you, too,” and finally, graciously, kissed him.

-

**February, 2011**

After some definitely over-thought discussion and undercover research in parenting support group circles, Aziraphale and Crowley came to the conclusion that it would be fine if Adam didn’t necessarily call them both variations of “Dad,” at least at home, which came as a big relief to Crowley, who, despite everything, didn’t really fancy another name change, and Aziraphale, who could barely stand the godforsaken nicknames the youth liked to try to give him when visiting his bookshop. Of course, when attempting to properly teach Adam their names and being met with their new assignments of “Azzy” and “Cwow-lee,” they both found they didn’t quite mind it, after all.

One thing Crowley did mind, though, was the fact that he hadn't cursed for literally a year and a half. So much so that he'd begun to worry he was starting to sound like Aziraphale, especially after he'd said "gosh," one day when attempting to cut up onions while in the same room as Adam. His brain had short-circuited mid-phrase, and it'd been his way of narrowly avoiding a "god damn it."

The night that happened, he told Aziraphale, “If you ever catch me sincerely saying ‘heck,’ I want you to just end everything for me, thanks,” without so much as an explanation for what specifically had brought _ that _on. Aziraphale would have been worried, except he found the entire dance of Crowley trying to make his lexicon child-friendly quite amusing, and, if he were to be so bold, a bit endearing.

Unlike Crowley, Adam wasn't very talkative, but neither Aziraphale nor Crowley were too worried about it; Adam wasn't antisocial or anything as far as they could tell, he just enjoyed taking to paper and drawing shapes that were nearly comprehensive pictures.

Additionally, while they didn't see a problem with Adam having longer hair, he'd started to scrunch his face up and complain when his hair fell in his face during these drawing sessions, and trying to pull his hair out of his face with accessories only seemed to irritate him further. Aziraphale had simply taken Adam to the kitchen table and cut his hair himself, and seemed to be fairly good at it. 

Crowley usually let his hair grow naturally on its own and then would style or shorten it with a quick miracle, so his hair had grown a bit over the past two and a half years. He noticed that Aziraphale's hair, however, seemed to not have grown at all, and he told him so.

"Oh, dear, my hair doesn't _ grow," _ Aziraphale replied with a soft laugh, which absolutely baffled Crowley. It was such a weird way to phrase that—what did it even _ mean? _

-

**September, 2012**

When Adam turned four, they agreed to enroll him in a pre-school, as it seemed the best way for him to meet other kids his age and, if they were being honest, neither of them had the patience to properly teach him simple math or reading. 

They started the registration process, with Adam's birth certificate under the name "Adam Fell," since "Adam Crowley" was just too strange for either of them to allow.

"Do you even have a proper first name to pass off to humans?" Crowley had whispered to Aziraphale as they filled out paperwork.

"'A.Z.' is all they need to know," Aziraphale had replied primly.

Before school season began, Aziraphale had gone to a local children's library, returning with a set of books with cats on the cover. He'd excitedly presented them to Crowley, telling him that, "perhaps if he grows to like cats, he will simply turn away the Hellhound!"

Crowley had done a quick Google search of the book series and thought, perhaps not, but didn't want to spoil Aziraphale's fun.

Two weeks later, Aziraphale returned with the fruits of his labor, looking quite distressed.

"I don't think these books would be good for Adam, even if he _ was _just a normal boy," he told Crowley worriedly. "They're much too violent, and they even have a strange concept of Heaven and Hell in them!"

Crowley listened, amused. "Really."

"One of the cats is the son of an evil one who is haunted in his dreams and nearly influenced to violence," Aziraphale went on, "and the fourth series is _ literally _ about a final battle between their Heaven and Hell!"

Crowley picked up one of the books from the pile, looking at the spine. "It _ is _ called _ Omen of the Stars _, angel."

They decided not to encourage Adam to read the books.

-

The entire ordeal of of dropping Adam off at the school was very simple in theory, much more or an issue in practice. Somehow Crowley hadn't exactly connected "take Adam to school" and "let Adam out of your sight" as one single concept.

The very nice teacher lady (Crowley’s description) had assured them (several times) that Adam would be fine, the school had their contact information, and was quite nice about it, but Crowley suspected there was a layer of annoyance after he and Aziraphale spent ten minutes hugging Adam as if it were the last time they'd see him. Aziraphale had managed to pry himself away and was trying to persuade Crowley to do the same.

“Hear that, dear?” he told the demon gently. “He’ll be alright for a few hours without us.” If he was sniffling, Crowley was decent enough to pretend not to notice.

“Right,” Crowley said.

A pause.

“Crowley?” Adam said. “Can I go?”

“Let go of his hand, dear,” Aziraphale added.

“Right,” Crowley repeated, reluctantly releasing Adam. He and Aziraphale waved to the boy as he went, then headed back to the Bentley.

“Is it okay for him to be in school?” Crowley worried the second they sat down. “Or pre-school. Whatever.”

“He’s fine,” Aziraphale assured him. “He’s a child just like any other. And we don’t have much a choice, regardless. We would be very poor instructors.” Which was fair.

Crowley drove the two of them back to the cottage, pacing and steady talking to himself as soon as they entered the home, and for the majority of the time Adam was gone. Aziraphale was a bit at a loss as to how to calm him; usually he’d coax him to the couch to braid his hair or simply let Crowley lay his head in his lap, but this time, there was no removing the demon from the kitchen, knee bouncing as he stared at the front door with his anxiety-riddled hands tapping at the counter.

They finally did go back to the school to pick up Adam, and Aziraphale (very gently, very kindly) had to remind Crowley not to pull up to a daycare center doing 90 miles per hour.

Adam was waiting at the front with a couple other kids, and the teacher they’d met before quickly walked to meet them before they could get close to the school.

“I’m afraid Adam and a couple other boys —” she glanced sideways at him, very pointedly, “— teased another classmate, and she didn’t really take too well to it. Once we separated them, though, they seemed fine. Played perfectly the rest of the afternoon, like nothing had happened.”

“Ah,” was all Crowley could think to say, leaning to get a look over the teacher’s shoulder. Adam looked a bit roughed up; one of the boys next to him had a torn sleeve in his sweater, and the other’s glasses were busted. Still, they all looked cheerful, talking to a fourth child, a girl, like they were all good friends.

“Is he hurt?” he heard Aziraphale ask.

“No, they’re all perfectly fine.”

They returned to the car with Adam, the boy waving enthusiastically to his new friends.

“I don’t suppose we need to tell you not to tease others,” Aziraphale said, turning to the back seat, to which Adam nodded in agreement.

“What’d you tease her for?” Crowley asked, starting to back the Bentley out of the parking lot.

“Her name sounded funny, but we’re not gonna do that anymore,” Adam told them with the confidence of a child who was under the impression that a playground scuffle was The Big Leagues Of Fighting, “‘cause she broke Wensley’s glasses and bit my shoe.”

“She _ bit _ your _ shoe?” _ Aziraphale said.

“Yeah, she’s ree-lly tough, Pepper,” Adam replied cheerfully. “We’re all best friends now.”

“Well, we’re glad you’re making friends, dear,” Aziraphale told him faintly.

“Can they come over sometime? I think they’d like the yard.”

“So long as they don’t go in the garden,” Crowley muttered under his breath, out of Adam’s range of hearing.

Aziraphale elbowed him.

“Of course they can, Adam,” Crowley corrected, speaking clearly.

“Thanks!” Adam said brightly.

After that, the other kids—Wensleydale (who didn’t go by his first name, for some reason), Pepper, and Brian—started to make a habit of showing up at the cottage whenever possible, and Crowley and Aziraphale became mildly acquainted with their parents every time they came around to drop off and pick up the kids.

“The girl’s mother is the only one worth talking to, if you ask me,” Crowley said one day, watching the group of kids running around the yard.

“Definitely,” Aziraphale agreed from his right. “At least the others don’t stick around too long after dropping their kids off.”

The cottage had the same decor as the old couple that had moved out when Crowley had willed them to do so the night of Adam’s surprise adoption, and hadn’t really changed aside from Aziraphale slowly collecting books in it, and Crowley starting a flourishing garden in the yard. He’d yelled at the plants in the beginning, but Aziraphale had quickly put a stop to that habit, so he’d settled for quietly hissing threats to each individual leaf and petal instead.

Crowley figured that first seeing a 1926 Bentley in perfect working condition, and then interior decoration that looked like it belonged to a couple in their mid-eighties which _ actually _belonged to … whatever Crowley and Aziraphale looked like, was a lot to take in. Aziraphale didn’t seem aware of anything like that, but then again, the energy of a given room was one of the few things the angel couldn’t read well.

“It’s good that he’s so normal, right?” Crowley asked.

“I think so,” Aziraphale said. “Our raising him must be working. He’ll be completely normal by the time he’s meant to come into his power.”

“I hope you’re right.”

-

**November, 2015**

A knocking at the door frame.

Crowley watched Aziraphale look up from where he was at his desk, already appearing concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Do human children usually lose their bones?”

“Sorry?”

“The —” He paused. “Forgot the word. Mouth bones.”

A beat.

“Crowley, do you mean he’s lost a tooth?”

“Tooth!” Crowley echoed triumphantly. “Yes. He lost one. Came up to me all smiling, looking like someone punched him.”

“Where is he now?”

“Sitting in the kitchen. I told him I’d get you. He isn’t injured.”

“Of course he isn’t injured, he’s seven,” Aziraphale retorted. “How does a seven year old know that losing a tooth is fine and normal but you don’t?”

“I don’t hang out with other seven year olds who are all having their teeth fall out of their heads, apparently!” 

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s normal, Crowley. They lose their baby teeth and grow adult ones. How do you not know that? We’re thousands of y—”

“I don’t know!”

The angel stood up, pausing as he walked by Crowley to say, “I sincerely hope you didn’t leave him out there with a bloody gum.”

“I gave him a tissue,” Crowley offered.

“Lovely,” he replied dryly.

They went to the kitchen where Adam was waiting, joining him to sit at the counter. “Tonight you can put the tooth under your pillow for the tooth fairy,” Aziraphale told him brightly.

Poking his finger at the spot where the tooth had been, Adam nonchalantly replied, “Wensley and Pepper and Brian all started losing their teeth and _ they _ said that the tooth fairy isn’t actually a _ thing.” _

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a glance.

After a moment, Crowley dug around his pocket before dropping a handful of coins into Adam’s palm. “Alright, then. Compensation. Since you’re losing teeth you worked so hard to grow.”

Adam looked puzzled for a moment, but quickly cheered up, stuffing the money into his shirt pocket and walking off to the yard, calling a “Cool, thanks!” over his shoulder as he left.

“How the _ hell _ do you do that?” Aziraphale murmured helplessly.

Crowley shrugged, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “It’s hard being the cool dad, angel.”

-

A couple days later, in the kitchen, they overheard Adam in the backyard with his friends, telling them that one of his dads had given him money to make up for losing his “hard earned” teeth, and then in turn his friends agreeing that all kids deserved that instead of “some rubbish story about a tooth fairy.”

“You may have started an issue, with calling that money ‘compensation’,” Aziraphale commented. “I do hope their parents don’t get upset with us, especially Pepper’s mother.”

“Well, it’s not like we’d’ve been able to convince him that the tooth fairy is real,” Crowley pointed out, “and his friends get money for _ their _teeth. Wouldn’t have been fair for him to be left out.”

Aziraphale simply hummed in response, leaning to rest his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

After a minute, Crowley said, “I’m thinking of cutting my hair.”

“Are you?” Aziraphale asked in surprise. “You’ve grown it out so long.”

“Yeah, but I’m kind of bored of it. Thinking something shorter, more —” he gestured vaguely, “— modern.”

“Well, do whatever you like,” the angel told him. “You’ll look dashing either way, dear.”

Crowley snorted. _ “Dashing? _ Really, angel?”

Aziraphale laughed.

“I would, only issue is that I usually just … miracle my hair however I want it to be,” Crowley said. “Don’t really want to do that now, risk drawing _ unnecessary attention.” _

A pause, and then Aziraphale very tentatively said, “I could … cut your hair, if you like. I at least know what I’m doing; I’ve had plenty of practice with Adam. It wouldn’t be any trouble for me.”

“Sure,” Crowley agreed, suppressing the way his heart fluttered. It was ridiculous. They’d been raising a child together for _ seven years, _ and he was still getting bouts of _ that. _

Later, once they managed to get Adam to sleep for the night, Aziraphale set up a few propped up mirrors at the kitchen table for Crowley to sit at. The demon didn’t bother with any substitution for a cutting cape—that was a problem for Future Crowley.

Aziraphale gently ran a hand through Crowley’s hair, catching his eye in the mirror. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

He started cutting at Crowley’s hair with the usual meticulous care he brought to any endeavor he wanted perfection in (which was most of them). Crowley could tell they’d be there for a bit, maybe a couple hours, but he couldn’t really find it in himself to care.

“You know, dear, I don’t tell you enough how beautiful you are,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley smirked, looking at the angel in the mirror. “That’s true, you really don’t,” he teased.

“Don’t flirt while I’m trying to cut your hair, darling.”

“You started it.”

Aziraphale hummed, lightly running his nails along the nape of Crowley’s neck and into his hair to separate a lock. Crowley leaned into the touch despite his previous scolding to sit still, deciding that it was the angel’s own fault for the inconvenience. 

Crowley was definitely subject to be accused of a bias when it came to tasks Aziraphale took on, but his hair was not one of those things that he’d give the angel a break for; it wasn’t an exaggeration or act of kindness when he found the cut to be exactly what he’d been looking for. It’d need to be actually styled later, but he could tell it’d work fine. He leaned back in the chair, smiling up at Aziraphale’s nervous expression.

“I love it,” he said, genuinely, “and you.”

Aziraphale’s appearance melted into one of relief, and he leaned over Crowley to kiss his forehead. “I’m glad,” he responded, voice warm.

Reality of their situation never really did hit Crowley, or even set in. It was more like it lightly landed in its nest like a gentle dove coming home from flight and made its home, next to its lifelong beloved, and took its time, making itself comfortable there. He and Aziraphale were living together, they had a son, and they were even half decent parents—maybe even good ones. Neither of them had heard a word from Heaven or Hell in seven years because of Adam’s mere presence, and they were fairly certain that they might never have to again. It can’t exactly be easy to have Take Two of Armageddon—maybe if they were lucky, their respective sides—former sides, probably—would forget about them and leave well enough alone.

That prospect seemed implausible with how tenacious Hell could be—and Heaven, for that matter—but a demon could hope.

-

**August, 2019**

It was Adam’s eleventh birthday.

They had let Adam go to the woods to hang out with his friends—the group had been referred to as “the Them,” apparently, which Aziraphale and Crowley could not fathom how they’d earned any name other than “The Adventurous Creative Minds” or something similar. Regardless, they’d told him to be back by three. That was when the Hellhound was meant to arrive, and they wanted to be close by when it happened. Maybe they could do something.

Three days before, Crowley had gone out of Tadfield briefly, hoping to get Aziraphale a couple of his books from the bookshop. “Brief” hadn’t been fast enough, and Hell had caught onto the radio signal of the Bentley, which was a damn shame because it was one of the rare occasions wherein Crowley had managed to get a Velvet Underground album to actually play for once, so he was a bit put out when he heard Lou Reed say to him, _ “WE DON’T KNOW WHAT YOUR GAME IS, CROWLEY, BUT IF YOU’RE DOING ANYTHING TO DISRUPT THE GREAT PLAN, THERE WILL BE GRIEVANCES TO ANSWER TO.” _

Crowley had very confidently (shakily) replied, “Sounds rough.”

_ “THE HELLHOUND WILL SEARCH FOR ITS MASTER IN THREE DAYS TIME. IF WE FIND YOU HAVE INTERFERED, YOU WILL KNOW.” _

Crowley had then quickly turned the radio off, heading straight home and mentally apologizing for not getting the book.

Aziraphale had been in bed, barely managing to ask what was wrong, dear, when Crowley sank down next to him and just kind of … clung to him.

Now it was the day of, and both angel and demon were a nervous wreck. Luckily, Adam hadn’t noticed, too excited to go meet up with his friends.

“What do we do, when the Hellhound shows up?” Aziraphale asked worriedly.

“I don’t know,” Crowley responded. “He’s not _ scared _ of dogs. He’s an eleven year old boy, of _ course _ he’s going to like a _ dog. _ A Hellhound may be a different story, but still.”

He dropped his head into his heads with a groan. Obviously all of this hadn’t been for nothing, but after eleven years, the prospect of Heaven and Hell still having their war, their Armageddon, and just tossing the two of them into the fire … it was more than he could handle.

Adam did show up on time, and Crowley and Aziraphale forced themselves to act properly, greeting him with the cake they’d made without issue the night before. It took physical restraint for Crowley to not look out the window every five seconds as they ate.

Adam was appreciative, but he was also a hyperactive eleven year old, and was already climbing down from the counter as soon as he’d finished. “Can I go back now? I’ve just got a really good idea for a game for Wensley and Brian and Pepper. The cake was really great, though,” he added quickly.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale.

It was ten minutes after three.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale told Adam. “Be careful in the woods and be back before dark.”

Adam nodded, and was out of the house in an instant.

A beat of silence.

“No dog,” Aziraphale said softly.

“No dog,” Crowley agreed in kind.

The angel slowly turned to him. “Wrong boy?”

Crowley felt his heart pound.

“Wrong boy.”

-

Despite his time away from Hell, as a demon, Crowley was still quite attuned to the wicked and dangerous in his vicinity (meaning Earth). He’d been laying on the couch for half an hour, rubbing his eyelids and trying to calm himself down as Aziraphale paced in the background, when he suddenly felt the Hellhound’s presence, very close by.

And then … it was gone.

He sat up, catching Aziraphale’s attention. 

“What’s happened?”

“I felt the … the dog. It found its master. And it … was turned away?”

“Turned away?”

“Whoever the real Antichrist is, he—he didn’t want it,” Crowley said, an incredulous laugh finding its way into his voice. “He didn’t name it.”

“What does that mean?”

“The Antichrist won’t come into his full power. At least for now, Armageddon’s been avoided.” Crowley leaned forward, rubbing his palms over his eyes. “It can’t be started without him giving the word.” 

He felt Aziraphale sit next to him on the couch. “We didn’t help with that at all, did we?” he said, voice almost giddy.

Crowley dropped his hands from his face, turning to the angel. “Absolutely not.” A pause. “But this wasn’t for nothing.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed warmly, “of course not, dear.”

He took Crowley’s face in his hands, kissing him. Crowley returned it nearly instantly, bringing his hand up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. He was struck with the thought that Aziraphale tasted like cake and icing and _ love, _whatever that meant.

Crowley suddenly pulled away, but still close enough that his words were spoken against Aziraphale’s skin. The thought had been a gently nagging one for quite some time, and for once he felt free enough to let it out.

“Marry me,” he said softly, a tone he hadn’t thought possible of himself.

“What?” Aziraphale responded, stunned, starstruck.

“I don’t know how Heaven and Hell are going to react to all of this, I don’t know who the real Antichrist is, but whatever happens, I want to go through it with you.” He took a shaky breath, forced himself to keep talking. Keep talking, it’s what he did best. “I don’t care how or where or when the marriage is held, even if it’s just a manner of us talking quietly to one another alone together. I don’t care about the legalities of it, I just want to be with you, angel.”

By then, Aziraphale’s eyes were near watering with tears, and Crowley would be lying if he said his own weren’t (though, he might try to pull the “irritating contacts” card). Aziraphale pulled Crowley close, sniffling wretchedly into his neck. It was a moment before he could get himself together enough to pull back, look Crowley in the eye.

“Of course, a thousand times over I would,” he managed to say, voice thick with emotion. Crowley just about melted.

“I love you so much,” the demon told him, coughing back a bout of tears.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond, but looked as though he’d fall apart if he tried to say anything else. He pulled Crowley into another kiss. It was messy and they were both crying and sniffling quite a bit, but it was perfect, it was complete, and it was _ home. _

_ \- _

Just a bit a ways from Jasmine Cottage, the real Antichrist was living close by, enough so that his own “automatic defense thingy” gave coverage to an angel, a demon, and a case of mistaken identity they’d grown to love.

The Hellhound had shown up as needed, but, well, the boy it’d appeared to much preferred the company of his tropical fish than that of a dog.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they get adam a regular dog and also heaven and hell leave them alone because technically they didn't really do anything wrong, they just kind of...didn't do anything. whatever gives them a happy ending. a/c probably tell adam that they're Supernatural Beings once he's eighteen and he's just kind of like "okay yeah that makes sense" and accepts it, lol.
> 
> okay now that you've read everything and are invested, i feel comfortable enough to say that this was my first fic like, ever. i usually don't like writing fanfiction because i always felt *weird* writing other people's characters, but once i got into a groove with these two, it flowed perfectly fine, at least for me
> 
> quick images i wanted to share because i have this great habit where i make Joke Edits while working on creative projects:  
[single father crowley clickhole article edit i made while outlining and then got upset over when i actually wrote the scene](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/418103418704494593/613864049758961664/unknown.png)  
[a collection of highlights from my outline that i thought fellow fans would appreciate](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/422037806110605333/614657241454477347/highlights.png)
> 
> this entire fic was brought on by me 1) being absolutely fascinated by greasy johnson's existence when i read the book after loving the show, 2) going "lmao wouldn't it be hilarious if greasy was the antichrist and they averted the apocalypse bc he likes fish and not dogs", and 3) being Absolutely Grabbed By The Throat By The "Aziraphale And Crowley Are Dads" Trope. ALSO i REALLY loved the them origin story and just HAD to write that
> 
> other misc. notes about my process:  
\- literally the only reason crowley says that he has money is because i remembered that one line from the book where it mentioned that he had to unload stocks  
\- im american i barely know my own country's geography or whatever so i spent an unnecessarily long amount of time googling things in the hopes that people would care more about The Dads than my accuracy. also i think i fucked up grocery stores but in my defense i thought walmart was universal  
\- it was originally going to start in 2007 and go up to 2018 as per the script book, but it felt weird to write "2018" in 2019, and also it's fanfiction so like who cares  
\- i want you all to know i spent at least ten minutes doing very loosely estimated math to determine that it would be possible for aziraphale to read the first four arcs of the warrior cats series in the span of two weeks (if he was REALLY dedicated) in order to pull off my joke. my estimates included making the executive decision to go "aziraphale probably reads like 200+ wpm"  
\- the original title was "make a bad one good" after a line in a huey lewis song, but i thought of the phrase "two dad shaped beings," and had a Laff about it. the google doc I did the actual writing on was titled "my two dad shaped beings" which was even better  
\- in the line "[Crowley] didn't really fancy another name change," i am absolutely implying that crowley thought he would have to legally change part of his name to include "dad"
> 
> i'm sorry for the long note, i just had like, So Much Stuff after outlining for a solid week. i miiight write another fic if i get sprung with another idea like this, but im not sure. ANYWAYS enjoy and [yell at me on tumblr](https://dyslexiccrowley.tumblr.com/)


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